


falling (into you)

by lilabut



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Blood and Injury, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, One Shot, Sharing a Bed, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 21:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13256652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilabut/pseuds/lilabut
Summary: She didn't expect to ever see him again when he stepped away from her and climbed out of that elevator earlier. Most of her had accepted that it would be the last she ever saw of Frank Castle. The tears in his eyes and the blood on his face as he pressed his forehead to her own andfell.But now he is right here, hiding in the dark of her home.





	falling (into you)

It is long past midnight by the time Karen drags herself up the stairs to her apartment.

 

Everything hurts. Every fiber of her body aches and moans with every slow step she takes. The pain only truly registers now that the endless questions have stopped. Finally, it's silent except for the rattle of the unreliable elevator in her building and the song of sirens filling the streets of Hell's Kitchen.

 

Her ruined bag is heavy around her shoulder, the muscles there full of tension from being jostled by not one but two explosions. Her head is pounding, temples throbbing. Dryness makes her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth and still she can smell the coppery stench of blood on herself, can taste it on her lips.

 

All she wants now is to take a long, hot shower – let the steam wash away the blood and dust and debris. A cup of hot tea, maybe, and then she'll bury herself in her bed and sleep until her body can no longer take the rest. Ellison already told her – not so gently – on the phone that he doesn't want to see her in the office for at least a few days, and while she'd been opposed to it then, it seems like the most tempting thing to do now.

 

When was the last time she slept for a day straight?

 

Her hand trembles as she rummages through her bag. The bottom is torn up from the bullet she sent through it, and wouldn't it be just her luck right now if she lost her keys on the way home through the dark city? But then she hears the jiggle of them, and a second later her fingers curl around them. Cold and sharp-edged. It's hard to keep them steady as she unlocks the door, leaning heavily against the wooden frame and sighing as she all but stumbles inside.

 

It's dark except for the yellow glow of the streetlights that filters in from the window. The _open_ window.

 

Her blood freezes in her veins the second the cold December chill hits her skin, and the keys she'd been holding fall noisily onto the floor when she makes out the silhouette of a man sitting on her couch, elbows resting on his knees, head hanging low.

 

“Frank,” she gasps, breathless and wide-eyed.

 

He doesn't turn to face her.

 

“You need to lock those windows,” he says instead. A low murmur that is hoarse and strained, but _god_ , it's more reassuring now than anything else could ever be. He's here, he's alive. He's safe.

 

She didn't expect to ever see him again when he stepped away from her and climbed out of that elevator earlier. Most of her had accepted that it would be the last she ever saw of Frank Castle. The tears in his eyes and the blood on his face as he pressed his forehead to her own and _fell_.

 

But now he is right here, hiding in the dark of her home.

 

“I will,” she promises, bending down to pick up the keys and lock the door behind herself.

 

 

 

She kicks off her ruined shoes, the soles of her feet aching on the hardwood floor. Boards creak as she rounds the couch, tears blurring her vision. Slowly, she sits down next to Frank, and still he does not move. Immobile like a statue he sits there, staring into the darkness. The warmth of him radiates, though, and she can feel the tingle on her exposed skin.

 

In the dim light the streetlights provide, she can see that the blood on the side of his head has begun to crust, that the piece of shrapnel is still lodged in his arm. A shudder wrecks her body at the sight, at the excruciating pain he must be suffering.

 

Then again, she has always seen that pain when she looked at him. From the moment she stepped into his hospital room until right now.

 

“Did they believe you?” he asks, and she startles a little at the unexpected end to the silence. The way his voice crumbles as he speaks breaks her in half, and she can't stop her hand from reaching out and curling around his forearm. Softly, just a light touch – not enough to pull him from his petrified state.

 

“They had no other choice,” she whispers, the words heavy on her tongue.

 

Frank nods briefly at that, and then silence engulfs them again.

 

There are so many things she wants to ask him, but now is not the time. Something troubles him, it had been clear even back at the hotel. Something she'd seen in his eyes but could not put her finger on.

 

“Let me help you.” Her voice is hoarse, every syllable a struggle and yet she pushes through. When she tugs on his arm, he remains still for another second before he willingly follows. Almost effortlessly, she pulls him from the couch. Her fingers find his as she leads him to the bathroom, entwining them slowly, delicately – like a key fitting into a lock and for the briefest moment she allows herself to imagine what it would be like to hold him, to be _held_ by him. With all the time and peace in the world at their feet.

 

Maybe she will never know.

 

 

 

His blood stains her fingers red, and she knows it won't wash off entirely. No matter how hard she scrubs. It will soak into every small crease of her skin, leaving behind the shadow of his suffering.

 

She doesn't allow it to distract her, not now. Instead, she traces her fingers over his warm skin, littered with so many old scars. His shirt lies torn on her bathroom floor, the piece of shrapnel staining her sink just as red. With every breath, his chest rises and falls and it's a rhythm she adapts to, one that's soothing because it's proof he's still here.

 

After everything, he is still alive.

 

After everything, he came to _her_.

 

He's quiet as she works. As she cleans his wounds and stitches him up as best she can, as she wraps them up with every bit of bandage and gauze she owns. If he's in pain – and he must be, he _must_ be – then he doesn't let it show. His head still hangs low, eyes fixed on the blood-speckled tiles beneath her bare feet.

 

The damp washcloth in her arms sends flakes of dried blood over his shoulder as she tries to wash his head clean. Mindful of the gunshot wound that tore open his skull, she cleans and cleans, but still it won't improve. No matter how hard she tries, there's always more.

 

Like Daniel's blood that never truly came out of her carpet, a constant reminder of the life he'd given because of how foolish she'd been.

 

Eventually, she gives up. Rinses the cloth one more time and gently wipes it across his scalp. The rest of him is clean now, his arms and chest still damp. One look over his shoulder is enough to tell her that his back is starting to bruise, countless of them scattered all over from his shoulders to his tailbone.

 

Bullets. Lots of them. Bullets that would have killed him without the vest.

 

She sucks in a sharp breath, her fingers curling tight around the washcloth. Pale red water dripping down onto the floor.

 

“It's all right,” he murmurs, moving for the first time in nearly half an hour when he reaches out and curls his hand around her wrist. It's a touch as light as hers had been earlier, gentle in a way you would not expect from him. His thumb presses against her pulse point just a little more than his other fingers, and it makes her heart rate pick up knowing he's reassuring himself as much as she is.

 

“It's not all right,” she breathes, gently shaking her head as anger boils in her veins. Not just anger at whoever did this to him, but anger at all the people who have hurt him so badly from the very start. Those very people who will never be held accountable for the atrocious crimes they have committed. Those people that make it impossible for Frank to find any semblance of peace and justice. “This is not all right.”

 

His thumb stills against her wrist, warm and calloused and now a persistent pressure more than a gentle caress. At first, she thinks he'll argue, make false reassurances that he can take this, that he's been through worse. It wouldn't be a lie. Sometimes, she still sees the x-ray of his skull in the darkness of her nightmares, the hole the bullet left behind that was meant to kill him.

 

But he doesn't say a word. Instead, his head falls forward on his next heavy exhale, his forehead pressing against her stomach.

 

Her heart stutters. Weeps. And then her tears fall freely from her eyes as they flutter shut. It only takes her a second to wrap both arms around his neck, to cradle his head in her palms and he doesn't hesitate to reach for her either. Large hands find her waist, fingers splaying there until all she can feel is the pressure of him. One step forward and she stands between his legs, his knees bracketing her thighs like he never wants her to step away again.

 

In this moment, it's the last thing on her mind.

 

“You could've died,” he murmurs, the hum of his voice vibrating through her and making her shiver. “You could have-”

 

“I didn't,” she whispers, resting her cheek against the crown of his head. It's remarkable how soft his hair feels, she wonders, even as short as he keeps it. It makes her mourn for how long it had been when he came back into her life, bearing white roses.

 

Her fingers rake through it, up and down across his scalp and he seems to melt in her arms. It doesn't change the fact that she can feel the warmth of his tears soaking through the stained blue fabric of her blouse.

 

“You got there in time.”

 

She understands now. Why he was so insistent the other day that she leave Wilson alone. That she stay away from it all.

 

He was scared to lose her. To get there too late.

 

She remembers those days she talked to him in prison, when he told her what happened to Maria and the kids in all it's vicious, gruesome detail. How their blood stained his hands, how he barely recognized them after the bullets tore them apart.

 

Today... Today could have been a repeat of that.

 

And she's not sure there's enough of Frank Castle left to survive that. To come out the other side with anything left to give.

 

“I'm sorry,” she breathes, feeling the dampness of her own breath against his skin. “I'm sorry about... About everything.”

 

Slowly, he pulls away. Just enough to be able to look up at her. Bruises, scrapes, tear tracks down his cheeks. He's a mess, torn and weathered and yet there's a softness to his gaze that makes her feel warm. Safe. The same softness that he's always offered her, that so few people seem to notice, from that very first time they met. He hadn't been in better shape then, strapped and chained to the hospital bed, ready to surrender to a death sentence or life in prison.

 

Now, he looks just as defeated.

 

His hand lifts to cradle her cheek, his fingertips ghosting over her split lip and up to the small cut on her forehead that's already been tended to. It's a gentle touch, like he's trying to ease the pain away and Karen can't help but lean into it, eyes fluttering shut.

 

No matter how hard she tries, she can't remember the last time she was touched like this. The last time she felt affection simmering beneath the surface of someone else's skin.

 

“ _Karen_ -”

 

Her name is a broken sob and she can't bear to look at him. Instead, she frames his face in her hands, leans down until her forehead meets his. Just like before. The warmth of his breath damp against her parted lips, and even though the angle is hurting her neck, she doesn't ever want to pull away.

 

One word is all it takes for her world to shift.

 

“ _Please_.”

 

Soft. Breakable. Raw.

 

A second later she breaches the small gap that remains between them, Frank's fingers curling into the knotted strands of her hair to guide her until their lips meet.

 

She has imagined it more than once, and for much longer than she cares to admit to herself. But it all fades compared to this. To the slow brush of his lips against hers, the taste of blood making her dizzy but she can't pull away. Instead, she leans in closer, presses harder, more urgently but it's still soft. Slow. Their cheeks are wet with tears, and fingers tremble as he pulls her closer, closer, always closer like he wants to crawl under her skin.

 

The soft sigh that escapes her is her answer to that. That she'd go willingly if she could.

 

Just for the fraction of a second does he pull away, barely enough to catch their breaths before he is kissing her again. One strong arm curled around her to hold her close, the other cradling her head so carefully like she was made of glass.

 

Maybe she is. Maybe this is what will break her. Everything that she has suffered and endured, everything she thought made her stronger. Maybe right here, right now, is how she finally falls.

 

“Frank,” she murmurs against his lips, her fingers ghosting over his cheek. He shudders against her at the sound of his name on her lips, and when she finally, finally opens her eyes she can see that his are open, too. Full of wonder and fear.

 

His nose nudges against her own, lips feathering over hers for another second to steal another kiss before he stills. Before the air around them cools again and the deafening silence takes over.

 

“Stay,” she pleads, barely audible. But he's so close. Close enough to feel her words rather than hear them. “Even just tonight. Stay.”

 

She'll sleep more soundly knowing that he's safe with her, that he's resting. That he's sleeping in a soft bed with the promise of a proper breakfast and not in some dingy warehouse or wherever the hell the finds shelter these days.

 

Everybody knows he's alive. That the Punisher is back.

 

The safety he found in the illusion of death is gone.

 

“Please,” she whispers, just as vulnerable as he had been.

 

When he nods, all the air leaves her lungs in a drawn out exhale, and her forehead falls against his as she allows him to crush her against him.

 

“I'll stay.”

 

 

 

By the time she's done with her shower – hair still damp, skin flushed red – Frank is sitting on the edge of her bed in nothing but his briefs. He looks up when she walks into the bedroom, and there's a hint of shyness to his expression that causes a wave of affection to rush over her.

 

She understands. Even in her yoga pants and the well-worn, over-sized shirt she's wearing she feels oddly exposed. Like something has changed. But they can't allow it to hold them back, and there's no discomfort in the air between them.

 

Switching off the harsh light, Karen bathes them in the semi-darkness that's only broken by the faint light filtering in through the shutters. Frank turns into a silhouette once more – broad shoulders and strong arms. This time, however, he's not immobile. One hand reaches out for her, fingers trembling.

 

“Come here.”

 

She does, walks on bare feet across the soft carpet until she can take his hand and feel the warmth of his touch as he gently, so very gently, pulls her down onto the bed. They ease into the soft sheets, clean and fresh, their bodies mirroring each other as she fabric rustles around them.

 

Frank pulls her into him as he rests on his good side, his forehead once more meeting hers as his hand finds her hip, holding her still. But she can't, is overcome by the desperate need to be closer. It's innocent when she hooks a leg around one of his, when her hands curl against his chest between them. His heart beats steadily against her knuckles, a rhythm they share.

 

Their breaths mingle in the small space between them, the scent of minty toothpaste and her rose conditioner bleeding into the air between them. “Karen-,” he whispers. There's hesitance to his voice, a warning that remains silent, a plead that tears at her.

 

One of her hands finds his cheek, feeling the light stubble there. “I know,” she breathes, pressing her lips just lightly to the corner of his lips. Lingering there in a silent promise.

 

Now isn't the time, no matter how much her body and mind are telling her otherwise. This might be their only chance, and it would be so easy to tilt her head and kiss him fully, to taste the softness of his lips, trace all the secret corners of his body, every scar. With barely any barrier between them she could ghost her hand over his taut skin, let him do the same to her, shed the last of their clothes and take him inside with no more than a tilt of her hips.

 

Tomorrow, he might be gone forever, and then she'll never know. Then _he'll_ never know.

 

She's under no illusion that her arms can offer him peace. Just like she knows his arms can never truly protect her. Not from all threats, not from all darkness – not from the one she keeps locked away deep inside her. That same darkness he carries on his sleeve and the barrel of his gun.

 

They're different and alike and she knows they'd find at least comfort. Hope.

 

But not tonight.

 

If this means wasting the only chance they're given, then she'll waste it gladly and without regret. He's not ready, neither is she. Not if she's being honest with herself. It's not him she's afraid of. Fear was never what he made her feel. It's what he _does_ make her feel that terrifies her beyond belief and if she allows it to consume her-

 

If he doesn't come back, what then? What's left then?

 

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs, tucking a damp curl of her hair behind her ear. There's a whisper of a smile on his lips, but maybe it's the darkness playing tricks on her.

 

“Promise you'll be here in the morning?” Her fingers trace over his chest in mindless, lazy patterns, her own exhaustion finally claiming her.

 

The last thing she remembers is a whispered _yes_ that's barely more than a brush of his lips against her cheek.

 

 

 

He doesn't break his promise.

 

He wouldn't.

 

_You never lie to me._ She told him that once, so long ago when she barely even knew him, when trusting him was a foolish thing to do. Then again, it always felt like they _did_ know each other, like the trust he showed in her and the trust she felt for him came naturally. It was ingrained in them, an understanding beyond anything she ever felt.

 

So, when she slowly stirs awake and feels herself enveloped in a pair of strong, warm arms, her lips curl into a smile that shows no signs of all the pain and suffering that lead them here. Just for a few blissful, sleep-dazed second, everything is right.

 

He's already awake, his fingers tracing up and down the dips of her spine through the worn cotton of her shirt. It has ridden up a little over night, and every now and then his fingertips ghost over the bare skin of her lower back. Just that briefest of touches sends a shiver through her body, filling her with a yearning that's almost unbearable and she edges closer to him.

 

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, and Karen can't help but smile into the crook of his neck. Softly, she presses a kiss where she can feel his pulse thrumming, and her arm curls around him tightly.

 

It's real and it's not. It's more than it can be.

 

In just a few seconds, reality will wash over them. Cold and relentless. The soreness in her body will bring back the pain. But just for a minute longer, Karen emerges herself in this, in what they do have. No matter what it means for the future.

 

Maybe the _after_ she wants so badly for him... Maybe she wants to be a part of that just as desperately.

 

“I have to go,” Frank murmurs then, nose nudging the shell of her ear as his fingers sift through her hair. His words, while she expected them, wash over her like a cold chill, and her hands hold on to him tighter for a second.

 

It's he who doesn't pull away, though, not at first. He who presses a kiss to the sensitive spot below her ear that makes her sigh and tilt her head back. He whose hand slides under her shirt to rest it against the curve of her waist. He who exhales her name against her skin like a prayer.

 

Karen still feels dazed when she opens her eyes. He's so close, and she can breathe him in, can trace his shoulder, his neck, his cheek until her lips meet his. Slow and steady, but even then her heart threatens to split in half.

 

“Be careful,” she pleads into the kiss. But it's more than that. There's something harsher to the words, a bluntness that makes him pull her closer against him. That makes him deepen the kiss. She would drown in this moment, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips and he opens so willingly, so quickly and with a low grunt escaping him that hits her like pure electricity.

 

The leg she still has curled around his is easy to use for leverage to pull herself closer, her hipbone nudging his side and _it wouldn't take much it would be so easy, so very easy._

 

With a shuddering sigh, she pulls away, her hands curled into white-knuckled fists.

 

She doesn't ask him if she'll see him again, or what any of this means for them. She doesn't even look as he pulls away from her and slides out of bed, as he silently gets dressed, as he leans down to press one more kiss to the crown of her head before his steps grow further and further away until her bedroom door falls shut behind him.

 

She doesn't cry, either. But she wants to. _God, she wants to._

 

 

 

Days pass with no sign of him. No word. Nothing.

 

She expected no less.

 

Despite the ache in her bones she drags herself to the office, types down her accord of what happened at the hotel, tries to make sense of what Lewis Wilson felt, of how he hurt. But the letters stare back at her, mockingly, black against white and she can't focus.

 

 

 

The unknown number that's calling her fills her with unease and for a second she considers not answering. But there's the curiosity that's lodged so deep inside of her that she can't shake it. The same kind that so very often got her into such trouble.

 

“Karen Page,” she says when she picks up, leaning against the wall and looking out through the shutters of her office onto the busy street below.

 

“This is... This is David Lieberman,” the man on the other end of the line replies. He sounds worried, almost paranoid. The name makes her pause, her eyes widen. _Micro._

 

“It's about Frank.”

 

 

 

Nobody is telling her anything about what happened at the park last night but for now, and she knows Agent Madani is most likely the only reason she's even allowed in here. But she doesn't care about the story behind all this. It's not important now.

 

Frank is still asleep, his face bruised once more, his body oddly frail against the hospital sheets, machines beeping steadily next to his bed. He's pale, his breath calm. Whatever happened, it must have been close.

 

Again.

 

Her hand rests against his, fingertips tracing the lines in his palm over and over. The chair she's sitting on is uncomfortable, creaks whenever she moves even an inch but she won't leave his side. Not now.

 

Hours pass like this. Silent and tense to the point that she can hardly take it anymore. Her eyes are heavy, her back aching, her feet cold in her heels, cups of flavorless coffee piling up on the bedside table.

 

But then, his lids begin to flutter. His heart-rate picks up just the slightest bit. A soft sigh escapes his lips.

 

Instinctively, her hand curls tightly around his, fingers slipping between his like the last puzzle piece fitting into place. His own fingers respond, giving her a light squeeze. Slowly, his eyes open, blinking a handful of times as they adjust to the bright white light of the room.

 

When he turns his head in her direction, he looks slightly disoriented, brows furrowed as he looks at her. Almost like he's still dreaming, a hazy smile twitching at the corner of his lips and when he lifts a hand to cradle her cheek in his palm, Karen is overcome by sadness.

 

He must be seeing his wife. Must think this endless nightmare is finally over. The tenderness in his gaze, the gentleness of his touch. He must-

 

“Karen,” he breathes, his voice low, quiet and full of disbelief.

 

At the sound of her name – _her_ name – her lips curl into a smile so bright that she feels her eyes water and her cheeks tint red.

 

“I'm here,” she says softly, breathlessly.

 

For a second, he stares at her in wonder. But then, just barely, he nods.

 

It's a promise.

 

For today. For tomorrow. For _after_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> My attempt at writing something a little less angsty than the last thing I wrote. It's still miles away from fluff, I guess - but here's to trying!


End file.
